


Angelus

by Cloudnine101



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dreams, Friendship, Loss of Grace, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 15:05:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2816519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudnine101/pseuds/Cloudnine101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'"Angels don't dream, Dean." </p><p>The man lounges back on the riverbank, gazing up at the sky. Nearby, water trundles onwards, leaves swirling in the current. Their reflection paints the liquid green.</p><p>"Yeah, but if you could...what would you dream about?"'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angelus

"Angels don't dream, Dean."

The man lounges back on the riverbank, gazing up at the sky. Nearby, water trundles onwards, leaves swirling in the current. Their reflection paints the liquid green.

"Yeah, but if you could...what would you dream about?" Castiel mimics Dean's pose, somewhat more stiffly. Dean offers up a lopsided smile, as he waits.

"I don't know. Heaven, I suppose. It hardly matters." And it doesn't - because even if he could sleep, the nightmares would keep the dreams at bay.

"I think it does. I mean, dreams are a way of telling you what you want, right? So, what do you really want, Cas?" Castiel turns his head, lost in thought.

"If I could have anything?" _To go back in time. To save them. To stop myself._

"Yeah." _For you to believe in me again._

"Your forgiveness."

Dean's body tenses, as the sunlight spills in. "You did bad stuff, Cas." Castiel's eyes close; he takes a breath.

"I have-"

"I know you're sorry...but that's not enough." Castiel keeps his eyes shut, drowning, falling. "If you wanna get over this, I'm not the one who needs to forgive you."

"They cannot help me, Dean. The souls are gone." Castiel can feel Dean's body brush against his own, until they're closer than close, a hair's breadth apart, with the sun hot on their skin.

"They don't have to forgive you," Dean says in a whisper, breath stirring Cas's hair, "that's what you've gotta do."

·

Castiel's eyes fly open. The motel room is dark. He's alone.

·

Dean's dreams are fragmented; images, swirling and rolling and writhing together, splashes of colour on a brown canvas. Castiel's seen enough of them to know this. They're not exceptional dreams, by any measure; filled with darkness and dust and decay, they can't be classed as beautiful. But to Castiel, they're something else - something special - something more. Sometimes, Dean dreams of peopl

When this happens, it's often Sam: as a child, waving; as a grown man, standing beside Jess, her hair trickling like liquid gold; as he is today, smeared in blood, turning away on a long, grey road. Sometimes, it's Bobby - and Dean reaches out, and tries to talk to him, but he's gone in moments, with a tweak of his cap and a twinkle in his eye. Sometimes, it's his father - and they don't say anything, don't do anything - just stand there, until a door shuts between them. Sometimes, Dean closes the door.

Sometimes, Dean dreams of Castiel. The first time it happened was the first day they met; and Castiel saw himself, over and over again, repeated on loop: surrounded by fire, with the flames burning from his eyes. It doesn't happen a lot, now; but when it does, they're always side by side - just lounging on deck chairs, or facing off against demons, or just going for a drive in the Impala.

Castiel likes those last dreams the best. In them, the dream him is always smiling; and Dean's smiling, too. Castiel would like that to be true, he thinks. If Dean gave him a chance, he would make it true. But he's an angel; and angels are powerful, and strong, and incorruptible. Beacons of light in the darkness, they stand tall, knowing that they're doing good. Castiel wants to be certain. He wants to be sure.

He's also stolen another angel's Grace, in order to become that.

(It doesn't seem to be working.)

The Grace, it appears, has now, finally, run out.

And he has nowhere left to run but home.

·

"Dean," he says, into the phone (like they taught him), "my grace is gone."' There's a pause, on the line. A silence. Castiel doesn't breathe - because they're going to turn him away again. Without his powers, he's useless. But where else can he go? What else can he do? He belongs with them - that much is certain. Why else would he have fallen?

"I'm coming to pick you up. Where are you?" Castiel's heart begins to beat once more.

"I'm in a motel." On the other end of the line, there's a familiar snort of laughter. Castiel feels a little lighter, for some reason.

"Which motel?"

"The one opposite from yours. I'll be in the lobby."

"Of course you will." The line goes dead.

Castiel clings to the phone, and prays he's doing the right thing.

·

Castiel runs his hands through his hair, and packs up his (few) belongings, and takes the stairs down to the lobby - the lift very rarely works, and when it does, it rattles. He's still running when he arrives, scanning the patrons, searching for a familiar face - and finds nothing.

Dean's not there. Dean doesn't want to pick him up. Dean doesn't want to be with him. Dean doesn't want an angel with no grace - he'd only go driving with a real one. A proper one. A brave one. And, apparently, all of Castiel's sacrifices mean nothing to him. Castiel turns away, holding onto his bag, and prepares to mount the stairs again.

"Cas! Hey, Cas!"

And there, in the entrance, is Dean Winchester, green eyes blazing - shouting his name. Castiel looks at him, and finds, strangely, he can't look away.

He doesn't know how he gets down the stairs; but he does, somehow, and then he's standing in front of Dean - his Dean - the man he's known longer, it seems, than anyone. The man he knows better, at least.

"Dean," he says - halts - falters. "Dean."

And across the crowded room, a man smiles.


End file.
